I realized then that David had lied to the police about being alone the night Henry died not because he wanted to spare me an uncomfortable conversation with Victor but to prevent his editors at theVoicefrom knowing about us. He was going to end the relationship, if you could call it that. That’s why he left my place early on Wednesday night, why he was so adamant about talking to me on Thursday. And yet, he hadn’t had the courage to say it:I can’t keep seeing you. I don’t want to continue this. My job is more important.
And all the while I’d been worried, I’d been doing everything to help him, using my family to help him, imagining he also wanted to talk things over and to be togethertogether. I was so stupid. Naïve. Dense. Slow. Credulous. Witless.
I was still mentally listing synonyms of my imbecility when I jumped into the elevator at the Eastern Columbia. At least I’d stopped crying by then. Not that I’d actually been crying or anything. As a rule of thumb, the Freire Valls clan doesn’t do crying, no matter the occasion.
“We finally meet.”
A voice took me out of my inner misery. I hadn’t even realized someone else had gotten inside the elevator before the doors closed. He was a bit taller than me and around my age, with tousled dark hair and an air that reminded me of Andrew Scott—a.k.a. Hot Priest ofFleabagfame. He was wearing medical scrubs and a smile.
“Finally?” I asked, confused. I had no clue who he was.
“I’m Andrew,” he said, accentuating his smile. I decided to privately refer to him as Hot Neighbor. “Apartment 10D?”
“Oh! Ah!” I said. “I’m in 10B, Elena.”
“Yes, I know,” Andrew said. “I met your boyfriend the other day.”
“Not my boyfriend,” I protested but felt bad. Andrew seemed nice. It wasn’t his fault that at present I hated all men, but especially my not-boyfriend David.
“I see,” he said, and he looked a bit uncomfortable. “Have you talked to the police by any chance?”
“The police?” I asked, confused.
“Yes, about the murder in the building,” he explained. “I work nights, you see. Not today but most nights. And during the day I just take an Ambien, throw some earplugs and an eye mask on, and I’m zoned out. I think they’ve been trying to talk to me. They left a card, some Detective Clooney or something. I was wondering if they’re making the rounds or I’m a suspect.” He laughed nervously.
“I think they just want to clear my not-boyfriend’s alibi,” I explained. “He told them he saw you on Wednesday night when he left my place.”
“When? This Wednesday?”
“Yes, the night of the murder in the building.”
Andrew frowned. “But I never saw him on Wednesday!”
“You just told me you met him the other day,” I said.
“I meant last week.”
The doors to the elevator opened then as we’d reached the tenth floor. Andrew exited and tried a nod as a way of sayinggoodbyeandsorry I can’t corroborate your not-boyfriend’s alibi. He headed into his apartment. I remained immobile in front of my own door for a few minutes before I was able to snap out of it and open the door.
Considering this story has only one POV—mine—you may be wondering whether everything I tell you is accurate or if I’m missing anything. Do you feel tempted to think David is guilty, seeing all the things lining up against him? Don’t. You don’t want to get distracted by the red herrings. But then again, could I be the one fooling myself about him?
32
Two Nights Before
The Shonda Rhimes talk at the TV Academy had been totally worth the drive to the Valley. The dinner with colleagues, not so much. Who suggests a sushi place when one of the members in your party is vegan? And my former colleague Greg needed to start doing something with that unruly haircut of his. But then again, so did I.
I’d just parked at home and had taken the elevator at the parking level of the Eastern Columbia. I was checking my overgrown hair in the mirror inside the elevator and thinking I should make an appointment with my hairdresser before my mother would accuse me of being unkemptagainwhen the elevator stopped at ground level.
Aargh!I had no desire to make small talk with any neighbor at the moment.
When the doors of the elevator opened and I saw him waiting at the building’s main vestibule, he didn’t say a word, didn’t even acknowledge me. But his eyes told me,I’ll take the stairs.
The doors to the elevator closed again and I made my way to the tenth floor alone, thinking about him. Was he working out more? Had I seen him running more often? Had he gotten new clothes fit for rebels? He looked so damn sexy.
I got into my place, left the keys inside the crap bowl at the entrance, checked the time, and realized it was still early.
I smiled, dimmed the lights to a mood-affecting glow, set the sound system to play Mitski’s “First Love/Late Spring,” and started undressing slowly and playfully.
